


At Your Side

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [8]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Eyeliner, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Platonic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 21:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6025891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Hawke's official inauguration as Champion of Kirkwall. Fenris accompanies him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Your Side

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** Inspired by [da-bbe's](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/138726689926/da-bbe-fenris-elf-bae) gorgeous art.

“Fasta vas!”

Fighting the urge to mash the heel of his hand against his burning eye, Fenris stepped back from the mirror. The thin stick of kohl snapped between his fingers. Half of it shattered on the tiles at his feet as his free hand groped blindly for the rag he’d set on the wash table beside him. He found the cloth and, still cursing, restricted his efforts to dabbing delicately at the moisture welling in the corners of his vision.

With his tears dried, he blinked away the last of the sting. The rag and what remained of the kohl were relegated to the table as he straightened, casting a critical glance along his reflection. Even with nigh a dozen candles flickering around him, the lighting was less than ideal. Thankfully, the venue for the evening – the Chantry’s main hall – would suffer the same. His eyes were slightly reddened, but at least the lines bordering his lids were approaching straight this time. He’d never applied cosmetics before. However...

It was not his first experience with wearing the stuff.

The unbidden memory of the bathing slaves and their efficient, invasive hands upon his person made his stomach clench.

He drew a breath. Turning from the mirror, he reached for the bottle of wine he’d opened to see him through the worst of his nerves and took a swig, remembering at the last second not to drag the back of his hand across his mouth as he set it down again.

This was for _Hawke._ And for once, the aid the mage required could not be offered with a sword. On _this_ night, Hawke did not need a warrior; whether the Fereldan knew it or not, he needed a _whore_ – or rather, an ally who could pass muster well enough to avoid rousing the interest of his opposition, while being versed enough in intrigue to act as eyes and ears in the viper pit Kirkwall’s politics had become. The first criterion favoured an elf and with the Dalish witch as the only alternative, the second had narrowed the candidacy to Fenris alone.

It was to be Hawke’s official investiture as Champion of Kirkwall.

The mage had managed to delay the event for ten solid weeks, but the city’s patience was at an end. The wounds the Arishok dealt him had long since healed. He was a free apostate in the City of Chains and as such, certain dues were owed. Moreover, the man had to ingratiate himself to the masses and fast. If Varric’s informants were reliable, and they _were_ , the region’s more zealous elements had wasted no time in affixing a price to his head – the highest of which could almost certainly be traced back to the Knight Commander herself.

This detail had remained between Fenris and the dwarf.

While Hawke knew enough to keep eyes in the back of his skull, he had too much to contend with as it was without the burden of such particulars.

Fenris could be watchful and his odds of _being_ watched, were rather slim. Assassinations weren’t as common in Kirkwall as they’d been in Minrathous, which, ironically, meant that a free elf in the Marches incurred fewer glances than a collared head of chattel in the heart of the Imperium. Hawke had fretted over Fenris drawing interest as the elf who’d called the duel that ousted the Qunari, but between the death-defying battle, Kirkwall’s liberation at the hand of an apostate, and the general state of anarchy in a city short on heads to bear the crown, the shape of one man’s ears was apparently quite forgettable.

By contrast, templar scrutiny had come down hard on Aveline and Anders. Tethras sway was brought to bear; Hawke had called in favours, but when all was said it done, it was the sheer volume of public outcry that kept the rank of Guard Captain secure.

Anders, of course, had proven more of a conundrum.

In the weeks following the coup, Fenris had expected (and yes, feared) that when he next laid eyes on Hawke’s compatriot, it would be his gibbeted corpse on display in the docks. According to the rumours, it was the mage’s Warden credentials that saved him from that fate. Word was that a letter had arrived from Amaranthine, claiming that the healer was ‘ _recruiting’_ for the Order and that any attempt to confine him to the Gallows would be met with retribution. Signed, by one Aleria Amell: Constable of the Grey and Hero of Ferelden.

It was a name on par with those of magisters Danarius himself had cited in hushed tones. The woman was known for her contempt toward the Circle as much as for her hand in ending the Fifth Blight, her legend defined by a ruthlessness equal to her vigour.

The threat of reprisal had to be a bluff, albeit one even the likes of Kirkwall’s Knight Commander would be hesitant to call.

Fenris reckoned that was something to be said for southern mages. Whatever conflicts flared between them, they were never slow to rally once templars got involved.

As for _him_ …

Simply being seen with Hawke invited danger, but as long as he could keep the depth of their association secret, he could mitigate the risk. Four years in residence in Hightown, and his neighbours yet regarded him as little more than a ghost. He was better known in Lowtown; in the backstreets and alleys where he dealt in his trade, but with recognition came clout, and Fenris had faith that his own, combined with Hawke’s would work to bridle wagging tongues. There was also Varric’s misdirection. And besides, the elf who’d raised his voice to the leader of the Antaam had been armed, battle-hard and bloody.

As it was, Fenris found _himself_ hard-pressed to recognise that man in the one who stood peering from his mirror.

He’d merely washed his hair and dried it, though if escorting ‘ _The Champion_ ’ was to become a regular endeavour, he might have to see about enlisting some assistance with the styling. The face-paint was down to the kohl around his eyes and the oil he’d purchased to lend sheen to his lips. The latter was more viscous than what he used to tend his blade. He’d worried that it would adhere to his lips like glue, but in fact, it was mildly soothing, like an unguent on chapped skin.

The clothes he had commissioned were unlike anything he’d ever worn.

He’d gone to a seamster favoured by Hawke’s mother while she lived, on the better end of Lowtown, nearer to Hightown than the docks. (Fenris suspected the proprietor might well have made it higher up the steps, if not for the knife-shaped ears they had in common). The final price for the ensemble came to more than he’d accounted for, but eyeing the result, he didn’t feel like he’d been cheated.

First and foremost, it was comfortable.

The shirt and trousers were sewn close to his form, but the cloth was finely spun, flowing smooth as silk against his skin. Strategic lacing appeared decorative while keeping his movements from being restricted, and embroidery down one side of the tunic was elaborate enough to distract from his markings, without becoming lurid.

The jewellery was courtesy of Varric: a pair of elven earrings, complete with pretty edgings for the tips and delicate, dangling droplets to drape from the lobes. There were filigree bracers for each finger (not his gauntlets, but sharp enough to injure if the need arose) and matching broaches for the fur lining the spaulders that completed the set. The bejewelled bit of armour could easily be taken for frippery, but the metal was sturdy enough to withstand a blade.

Hidden practicality or no, to Fenris’ own eyes, he did not _look_ like a man to be feared. Instead, he seemed… _softer_ than himself – a creature more accustomed to pampering than pain.

The collared, half-nude adolescent he’d once been, trailing docilely in his Dominus’ wake, could not have seemed remarkably intimidating either, but Danarius was adamant that the spectacle of his markings would suffice as a deterrent. As an Imperial slave, he’d spent his time at gatherings watching for threats and striving to appear as part of the décor – much the same as he would tonight. Then, as now, he hadn’t carried a weapon. He’d _been_ the weapon and Danarius, his wielder: a lyrium-etched dagger, affixed to his master’s flank. Eerily ornate, and no less lethal for it.

A few of the bolder Altus had taken an interest nonetheless, and the threat of their indulgence had been a favourite in his owner’s arsenal.

Nothing would come of it, of course. He’d fled before boredom could begin to erode Danarius’ jealousy. He still did not relish the idea of drawing scrutiny that might lead to desire, but…if he _were_ of a mind to invite such notice, then perhaps, dressed as he was, an appreciative glance from _Hawke_ would not be unwelcome.

The stray thought brought heat to his face and Fenris firmly reminded himself that this was _not_ the purpose of the evening. His goal was to offer support, not act as a distraction!

His gaze caught on the ribbon tied around his wrist. Not the red handkerchief he usually wore, but a reminder nonetheless. Someone – probably Anders – was bound to argue that he was simply trading masters, doing for one mage as he had for another, but to Fenris, it did not _feel_ the same. Seven years, and Danarius had not abandoned the hunt. Hawke was the one man in Thedas with the power and resolve to help him fight for his autonomy, but that was not why he stood with him now.

Danarius’ very nearness had pressed on him like a yoke, but Hawke? When _he_ looked at him, Fenris felt as though he might truly deserve to be free.

A series of knocks echoed from the from the foyer then, distracting him from his thoughts. Three brisk, two timed slightly further apart. A moment later, there was the scrape of a key, followed by a loud click as the lock securing his front door twisted open. There was only one man in Kirkwall with both knowledge of that code and a key to his home, and sure enough: “Fenris! You ready?”

With a final tug at his tunic, he grabbed his rings off the table and began slipping them on as he moved to meet his companion.

Hawke was found waiting for him in the atrium. “Yes. We can go,” Fenris announced.

The Fereldan turned to greet him. He was smiling, lips parting as if to speak, but when his gaze fell on Fenris, he froze, eyes growing wide. Seconds ticked by and Hawke merely… _stared_. Fenris thought he seemed mildly distressed, but he wasn’t quite certain. He’d never seen anyone wear such a look before.

“Is…something amiss?” he asked, glancing down at himself. Perhaps he’d gotten carried away in his preparations. They would likely be late, but if Hawke would rather he change—

The human shook his head.  “You look…” he began, sounding oddly hoarse. A gloved hand rose, gesturing cryptically at the length of Fenris’ person.

“Yes?” the elf prodded, nervous now. “Venhedis, Hawke, speak your meaning!”

The mage seemed to rouse from a trance. Even under the twilight of the torches and the bronze of his complexion, the rouge colouring his face was obvious. “Youlooknice, alright,” he muttered briskly, glancing away, clearing his throat. “ _Really_ nice,” was all but grumbled under his breath.

Fenris blinked. An odd lightness rose in his breast, like the sense of relief when dropping something fragile and catching it before it shattered. A smile plucked at his lips and he ducked behind his hair to hide it. “Thank you, Hawke,” he said, feeling his own ears grow warm beneath the jewellery. “As do you,” he added, meaning it.

In keeping with the man’s typical brazen, there was a distinctly Chasind slant to Hawke’s choice of finery. What looked like Simir feathers (imitation, Fenris guessed; the bird had been hunted to extinction and no source existed this far south of Nevarra) served as a reminded of the mana in his veins. There was no chance of Kirkwall’s nobility forgetting precisely what their Champion embodied. The fact that it suited him was undeniable, however.

Hawke let out a chuckle, caught between tense and surprised. “Really? I feel like someone slapped a diamond collar on one of the mutts from a dogfight rink in Darktown.”

“Nonsense. You _can_ do this, Wreath,” Fenris assured, laying a touch to Hawke’s arm. “I shall see to it.”

Hawke’s lips twitched upward, jaded, but sincere. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this. I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

“No need,” Fenris replied. “I have it on good authority that this is what friendship entails.”

Hawke’s smile did not dim, but there was something wistful in his gaze.

“You’re a good friend, Wolf,” he said. “Best I’ve ever had.”


End file.
